


Seek You Out

by BlessedPicturesPresents



Category: Alan Wake (Video Game), Alan Wake's American Nightmare
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Darkness, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eye Contact, Forced Orgasm, Gun Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Non-Consensual Bondage, Oral Fixation, Orders, Overstimulation, Rough Oral Sex, Suspension Bondage, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedPicturesPresents/pseuds/BlessedPicturesPresents
Summary: Scratch catches Wake sleeping on the job. He decides to show Wake what a bad idea that is.
Relationships: Mr. Scratch/Alan Wake
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Seek You Out

**Author's Note:**

> Lyric name from Poets of the Fall "Seek You Out".

Wake had been missing long enough now that Scratch _knew_ something was up. He slid from shadow to shadow throughout Night Springs, AZ, trying to find the author; from what he could tell, everything in this new go-round had at least been started, every little cog working in order, save for Wake himself. The CD had been started, the space tech had been destroyed, everything was ablaze and the mechanic was dead- even the keys were gone, and the door to the lab tech’s body opened, but Wake had never appeared at the lab. Scratch knows there’s no way to actually lose the writer, that there’s no way out of this loop unless one of them dies first- and, well, Scratch can’t die, not like Wake can, and the loop hadn’t ended yet, so that certainly hadn’t happened. Wake must be around here somewhere.

The answer lays- and the writer, quite literally- in one of the cheap little motel rooms. Every single light in the room is on, naturally, _wuss,_ but the door had been shut up with towels and the curtains pulled so tightly, effectively pressed against the windows as to not let any light free, that it wasn’t until Scratch actually tried getting into it that he realized Wake was in there. Wake himself is sleeping soundly on the bed, curled up in a ball, apparently exhausted from the first few rounds. _Poor baby._ Scratch clicks his tongue, watching the writer sleep for a few moments, letting his rage swell in the empty cavern of his chest, feeling his skin growing hot. What to do, what to _do._

Wake stirs, and Scratch smiles warmly. “Hey there, sleeping beauty,” Scratch calls as Wake tries to scrabble from the bed, pulling out some dinky little pistol. “Ah-ah, don’t get up on my account,” Scratch says, wiggling his finger, a wicked smile spreading on his lips. In two quick movements he’s across the room, punching Wake directly in the side of the head. The writer goes down hard, gun and light scattering, and Scratch’s grin widens, borders on wild. Hey, if all of this is really boring Wake to sleep, maybe it’s time to come up with something fun instead. Gotta excite him, keep him interested in the game.

Scratch can’t be the only one pulling his weight around here, goddamnit. If Wake isn’t going to focus, it’s just going to have to fall to Scratch to pull him back onto the path.

* * *

It takes some grappling, some rearranging, some clever application of his knife and some wanton destruction of most of the light bulbs, but with a little work and elbow grease Scratch has set everything in place. The bed and the lights on each nightstand were untouched, the lamps throwing an almost warm and homey glow across the room; the light softens every edge, rounding out the curves on Wake’s skin, making the carpet almost look decent instead of threadbare and tacky. Scratch himself sits on the edge of the bed, toying with the knife he always kept with him, watching Wake. The rest of the furniture had been moved, shoved aside unceremoniously or outright discarded, thrown directly into the motel’s courtyard, some of it shattering cheap splinters on the pavement and dirt the second it hit. It’d helped, it really had, to indulge in his temper, throwing things around, just like the writer’s memories indicated Wake had used to, too. The door, naturally, was closed, and locked- while Scratch could control the Taken to an extent, he didn’t want visitors- and the curtains were still drawn, untouched, still clinging to the window. It’s just him, and Wake, and their little bubble here in the middle of the big wide world.

Well. As much of the big, wide world as Wake had written, anyways.

Wake moans under his breath, groggy, in pain, and Scratch patiently watches the grimacing writer try to move. Scratch had used the shadows in the room to his advantage, pulling out tendrils that dripped from the ceiling and lazily reached up from the ground. The tentacles, for lack of a better word, draped across Wake’s body and kept him in the air, hanging with his face just slightly over the bed, close enough for Scratch to reach. The rest of him, naked, was tightly held in place, arms tied behind his back, legs spread and folded. All wrapped up, just like a present. From Scratch, to Scratch, kisses. Naturally the clothing Wake had been wearing had been discarded already, shredded off his unconscious form with Scratch’s knife, complete with little scrapes on Wake’s legs, chest, stomach. Scratch hadn’t really meant to cut him, but big knives, you know. So unreliable if you’re in a rush, extra care has to be taken and who has time for that these days?

It takes Wake a good, long, delicious few minutes before he really understands the extent of his new problem, until he’s tested the shadowy restraints to their full; slowly, at first, pulling against it, and then violently, thrashing for a moment, breath panicked and choppy. Scratch just smiles at him, watching, cleaning the dirt from his fingernails with the tip of the knife.

“Hey hey, _bestseller,_ ” Scratch says, practically purring. Wake won’t look at him, glaring down at the floor, mouth pinched close in a terribly tight line. It’s not a good look, almost like a petulant child, and Scratch almost feels offended on his behalf. A face like that and that’s how he chooses to use it, huh? Yikes. Wake’s head is the only body part he’s actually allowed to move to his heart’s content, and he lets it drop and hang so that he doesn’t have to look at Scratch, which annoys the fuck out of him. All this work and Wake’s not even going to grace him with those hateful baby blues? Rude.

A dark tendril slides itself up Wake’s shoulders, wrapping around his throat and tightening ever so slightly. The tendril pulls itself against the edge of Wake’s jawline and jerks hard, pulling his head up, but still Wake doesn’t look at Scratch, eyes shut. The writer is trying to convince himself he’s not afraid, trying to steady his breathing, and Scratch can see the delicate beat of his heart against the skin of his throat, pulsing against the tentacle’s grip. “Aw, cmon. You don’t need to be rude. At least say hi, Alan.”

Pointed silence. That rage twists in Scratch’s gut again, and he’s so very tempted to slide his knife through the tender folds of that vulnerable neck right here and now. The dark whispers hiding in the back of his head dissent, not that they needed to. Scratch breathes slowly through his nose, trying to settle himself, control his rage.

“Aaaaalaaan.” He tries a sing-songy voice this time, tries to sound disarming and friendly, but apparently whatever’s going on in Wake’s head has already convinced the writer not to play ball even a little. Wake swallows, and Scratch is again distracted by the way the tentacle is pulled tight across the skin of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobs, the way the delicate machinery of his human form moves. The heartbeat. The sweat beading across his skin. It’s actually intoxicating, and Scratch almost forgets his rage, whatever this little game was going to be. “Cmon, Alan, don’t leave me-” he snorts, “hanging here, buddy. Geddit?” Wake’s eyebrows twitch, knitting together in annoyance ever so slightly, and Scratch giggles. “Hanging.” Scratch reaches out and touches Wake’s face, running his forefinger over the writer’s tender bottom lip. It’s chapped. Has this guy ever heard of chapstick? Wake twitches but doesn’t react. “Because you’re hanging up? I _slay_ me.”

Still, the writer pointedly refuses to give Scratch an inch. Doesn’t move, as best he can. Doesn’t speak, or open his eyes, or anything. The rage roiling in Scratch’s gut starts to become an idea, a thought, a new game.

“Yknow, originally I thought I’d use this time between us to have some fun,” Scratch pushes the tendrils to start to move to his whims, tightening here and there, sliding up one another to press against Wake’s skin, “play a little game. You do what I say, I let you go. Kinda like, oh, what the fuck’s it called.” Scratch snaps his fingers several times, leaning back against the bed, the knife on the rough cheap comforter. The dark tentacles spread Wake’s legs further, sliding between the cheeks of his ass, pressing against him with a silent demand; more of them slither across his chest, making his skin flush as they rub gently against pressure points Scratch is intimately aware of. “Oh, fuck. Yknow, that game where the guy says something and you’re supposed to follow him, but if he doesn’t _say_ …”

Wake manages to keep to his childish refusal to engage, which is admirable considering the uncomfortable position he’s trapped in. He keeps his eyes closed, his lips still tight, but Scratch reads his discomfort in other ways: the slowly deepening blush on his cheeks, slight twitches, gentle tensing and squirming, trying to find any give at all, as if he’s silently trying to will the tentacles to leave him alone, to stop whatever they’re up to. Scratch watches that tentacle around his throat bob again with another of Wake’s dry gulps and licks his own lips, starting to feel warmer in the stuffy little room. The rage he was feeling has finally subsided to a single-mindedness, a hunger that threatens to overwhelm him.

“Cmon, Alan, I know you remember.” Still nothing. One tendril pushes against and then into Wake, and the writer cuts off his own choked gasp as fast as he can. Scratch savors it anyways. “That game? What’s the name of that game?” His tentacle moves deeper into Wake, who’s tightened almost every muscle he has now against the intrusion; still no open eyes, open mouth. Asshole. “Aw, you’re really not going to play nice tonight, huh?” Deeper still, until the tendril’s dulled head flicks against Wake’s prostate, the little bundle of nerves apparently sending a shock through the writer- he gasps again, actually jumps against Scratch’s bondage, and for just a second there his eyes are open, but Wake slams them shut just as quickly. “Not in the mood? We’ll see if we can fix that, huh?”

Slowly, as slowly as Scratch can muster now that he’s committed to this, the tendril inside Wake starts to thrust, gently in and out and up against his prostate over and over again, a dedication to getting any reaction out of Wake that it can. But the more it fucks into Wake, the more he seems to adjust, and soon enough his choked little gasps are downgraded to nearly-silent noises under his breath, his teeth jammed down into the skin of his bottom lip.

“Fine,” Scratch hisses, and leans forward on the bed again, grasping Wake’s chin with an iron grip, the knife pressing against the thin skin under Wake’s right eye. “If you don’t want to play. I don’t have to be nice, you know.” He pushes the tip in ever so slightly, a pinprick of blood appearing under the sharp blade, and Wake twitches, visibly afraid. “Open your eyes, Wake. _Look at me._ ”

Nothing. The tendril gets faster, and another presses in; ever more tendrils snake down Wake’s thighs and hips, gripping his uncomfortably half-hard dick and starting to apply pressure, pulsing and sliding to get a reaction. Wake whimpers but he doesn’t move. Now that he knows the stakes, he’s apparently also committed to this stupid fucking defense, and while on some level Scratch can appreciate that, on another level it stokes his rage back into a frothing hatred.

Slowly, slowly, Scratch drags the tip of the knife along the edge of Wake’s eye socket. The thin line of blood that wells up immediately starts to slide down Wake’s cheek. The skin reddens, and Scratch wonders how bad it must hurt, how it must be upsetting Wake’s eye. He runs the blade into the wound again, deepening it only enough to ensure it bleeds. He wouldn’t want to play his hand too soon, after all. Voice low, Scratch leans up closer, his face almost touching Wake’s, and he knows Wake can feel the breath of each word against his mouth: “If you do not open your fucking eyes, I will cut them out. _Look._ At _me._ ”

Finally, Wake looks at him. His eyes are watering, but Scratch can’t tell if it’s just from the pain of the cut or the intrusions against and inside his person. Scratch smiles sweetly, running his thumb over Wake’s jawline in little circles. “Was that so bad?” he whispers, and the hate lighting Wake’s eyes up is absolutely delicious. He could just eat it all up, really, he could. Scratch hums a little noise of amusement, his fingers moving up from Wake’s chin to his lips, where Wake’s teeth have left a little dent; he strokes it with his thumb, pushing up against the corner of Wake’s mouth, just slightly opening his lips. “It’s called _Simon Says,_ by the way.”

Wake doesn’t say anything, but now he doesn’t need to; the rage and humiliation in his gaze is speaking volumes, writing Scratch entire fucking encyclopedias about how the writer feels about all of this. The tendrils are still working, tirelessly, in the midst of all this; a third slips inside Wake, wrapping around the other two to jam against his prostate with a much thicker head, while more tendrils shiver and cover his now-fully hardened dick, pushing him ever closer to orgasm against his will.

Scratch breathes out slowly, taking it all in. He pulls the knife away from Wake’s face, dropping it on the bed again. His fingers are preoccupied with Wake’s face, pushing and pulling at his lips ever so slightly, sliding against the blood dripping from the cut under his eye. One of Scratch’s hands reaches up and into Wake’s sweaty hair, pulling ever so slightly, moving constantly as he grips and pulls and pushes the hair around, which forces the quietest whimper out of Wake’s lips. “Don’t stop looking at me,” Scratch whispers, suddenly incapable of raising his voice, his chest tight from all of this delicious stimulation. He can hear the little moans trapped in Wake’s throat, feel all the bonds on his skin, how hot his skin is now. How hot Scratch’s own skin is. He’s getting hard too, he can feel it, but he doesn’t want to give in just yet; he wants to push Wake further, see how long he can hold out watching the writer fall to fucking pieces.

A single tear drops down Wake’s face, mingles with the blood, slips past his lips. Scratch smears it against his skin, against his mouth. Wake shudders and Scratch feels it in so many ways, in the Darkness sliding over Wake’s skin, in his own touch, in the quiet, desperate little moan Wake can’t bite back that vibrates through his fingers. Tendrils are wrapping around Wake’s balls, and the pressure in his gut is somehow infectious, Scratch wanting so badly to fuck himself into Wake’s face, or jack off in front of him, give him something else to hate Scratch for. But no- another, better idea grips Scratch, and he finds the knife again without looking down, and, shifting forward where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, Scratch stabilizes himself and takes Wake’s jawline in his hand again.

“Keep looking at me,” Scratch reasserts, “thaaat’s it,” and while his voice is still a whisper, he’s managed to regain some of his authority, his breath. He rests the flat of the blade against Wake’s face, the tip against the cut he’s already made, and he slowly drags it against the wound, collecting the blood and scraping whatever scabs were trying to form back open. Scratch does this four times, pulling the blade slower and slower against Wake’s broken skin, his grip now so tightly on Wake’s jawline that it’d hurt his fingers, if Scratch gave a fuck. He pulls the blade away from Wake’s face, aware of Wake’s unwavering hateful glower in his peripheral vision flashing back between Scratch’s face and the blade itself. Wake can’t hide the fear he feels, the clear concern in his watery blue eyes, the desperate want not to be cut again. He’s trying so hard not to be moved into the blade, to steady his body as a fourth tendril fucks into him with the others, as they rail him harder and harder, and he’s breathing in short gasps now, bursts of pain and unwanted lust wrapped in sharp breath he can’t control.

“Fuck.” Scratch gently places the blade against Wake’s lips, wiggling the flat of it back and forth on his chapped skin. He smiles, almost dazed by the look of Wake’s- everything. Fuck, his everything. “Open your mouth,” Scratch murmurs. Wake only hesitates a moment, eyes flickering for one half second to the blade and back again to Scratch’s eyes. Scratch holds that gaze when Wake opens his mouth, slowly; Scratch holds that gaze as he slides his thumb up from Wake’s jawline again to his mouth, pushing against his top teeth and forcing the writer open; Scratch holds that gaze as the flat of the knife pushes slowly into Wake’s mouth, against Wake’s tongue, the blood immediately reddening the flesh. He doesn’t push it too far in, afraid to accidentally puncture the back of Wake’s throat and end their little game prematurely with the way the tentacles are fucking Wake forward so roughly. “Aren’t you a pretty lil picture.”

The tears welling up in Wake’s eyes now are real, actual tears of fear and the sheer feeling of being overwhelmed and abused; Scratch rubs the blade against the writer’s tongue a few times, cleaning it of his blood, and then pulls the knife out and drags the flat up against his cheek to collect one, licking the tear off with a smirk. “You know what, this is dangerous!” Scratch says. He’s finally able to speak above a whisper, and some magical energy between them is broken for it, his voice seemingly loud over the soft moans and grunts and gasps of Wake. Scratch tosses the knife away again, and this time it clatters to the floor; he pulls at Wake’s pistol, some stupid little police thing he imagines Wake dreamed in some Alex Casey wet dream once. “Now, this,” Scratch says, making a show of examining the gun, turning it back and forward in his hand in front of Wake’s tear-streaked bloody face. “Boring, right? But way less dangerous. See, when I-” and he pushes it towards Wake’s mouth, but the writer clamps up shut, and Scratch’s face flushes with rage. “Open,” he hisses, cocking the gun, “or _so fucking help me,_ Wake.”

Slowly, unwilling, Wake opens his mouth again, lips quivering. He’s panting moans now. Scratch softens again, smiling wide.

“There you go. See, it’s not so hard to listen. Anyways, as I was saying,” and he shoves the gun into Wake’s mouth. It jams against the back of Wake’s throat and he gags; just then, the writer cums hard, crying out around the gun metal, spilling cum against the floor. Scratch raises an eyebrow and for a moment the tentacles all stop, save for those violently jacking Wake off to make it last. He’s shivering where he hangs, desperately gasping, tears spilling freely over his cheeks now, though Scratch is absolutely sure these ones come from the new throat intrusion. “Wow. Damn, okay.” Wake glowers at him, trying to swallow around the gun without touching it. “You really must be into that, huh?”

Scratch removes the gun again, making sure to slide it pointedly across the flat of Wake’s tongue, and looks at it curiously while Wake pants and coughs, straining against the tentacle still tight against his throat. Scratch cocks his head at Wake, smirking, tapping the gun against Wake’s bottom lip. “I bet you can do better than that, huh Alan?” The other tendrils all jerk, like they’ve remembered there’s life within them, and begin again, pawing at Wake’s dick, squeezing his limbs, slowly beginning to fuck into him again. Wake whimpers, his eyes actually pleading for Scratch to stop this, but he won’t bring himself to speak, and that suits Scratch just fine. “I saw you look away a few times, so, let’s see if we can do better this time.”

Wake opens his mouth like he’s going to actually say something this time, but Scratch doesn’t give him the time of day, pushing the gun deep into him again, using the thumb of his other hand to jam down on the writer’s bottom molars and keep Wake’s jaw nice and wide. A sixth tentacle winds it’s way into Wake’s body with the others, fucking slowly, jabbing relentlessly up against his throbbing, painful prostate. Scratch makes sure to go gently this time, sliding the gun back and forth against Wake’s tongue with a practiced hand, watching Wake’s face. He can barely keep his eyes open with the pain, over-stimulation, hate, rage, whatever- all of the swirling emotion and sensation within Wake’s body can’t choose which one’s in control, and his face shows this beautifully. His eyes leak, his mouth quivering, his breathing hard enough that Scratch can feel it against his hand as he fucks the gun into Wake’s mouth, it’s all the sign of a man who’s not actually handling this very well, who can’t take it but is forced nonetheless. Scratch’s dick is painfully hard now, throbbing and insistent, but he still wants to keep pushing it, see how long he can go, how many times he can push Wake over the edge before he allows himself to feel it too.

Between the soft slicking noises of the tentacles fucking into Wake’s body, writhing against his slowly and painfully hardening dick, and throbbing against his tied limbs, Scratch almost can’t hear the sound of the gun sliding back and forth in Wake’s mouth, but the longer he does it, the wider Wake opens his mouth in an attempt to lessen the pain and discomfort, and the further his tongue slides out, and the more he drools, and that’s so much better than noise anyways. Saliva streaks down Wake’s chin and strings from his tongue to the gun’s shaft, and his panting makes it sound like he’s really enjoying this after all. It’s starting to be too much, and Scratch hisses, releasing his grip on Wake’s face to paw desperately at his own crotch, feel his dick through the suit, grip at it to try and feel some relief. Wake clamps his mouth closed almost immediately around the gun, but Scratch doesn’t stop, and the sharp parts of it rip at his lips, bloodying them slightly; he opens his mouth again, less wide, to try and stop the pain. A seventh and eighth tentacle push, demanding, into Wake’s body, and he whimpers from it; it’s too much for him too, and his body is starting to reach the limit of what it can physically take without tearing apart.

One tentacle opens itself into a mock-mouth and takes Wake’s pulsing dick into it, pumping at him, which makes him jump and moan louder, in pain and pleasure and hatred. He’s trying so hard to keep his eyes on Scratch’s face, but between all the noise in his head and body, his eyes are starting to slide back. Wake gags on the gun, his panting more moans than breath, and Scratch officially can’t fucking take it anymore. He yanks the gun, hard and fast, out of Wake’s mouth, bloodying his bottom lip again as it catches skin on the way out, and throws it across the floor, hands scrabbling to open his pants.

Scratch stands, and in a swift motion steps up onto the bed, pulling his painfully hard dick out. He takes fistfuls of Wake’s sweaty hair and uses it to stabilize himself momentarily before brutally shoving his dick into Wake’s gaping mouth. The writer doesn’t even need to be told what to do, too out of his mind to fight it; he sucks, tongue working slick with saliva and blood, almost greedily. The tentacles fucking Wake against Scratch are merciless, and despite Scratch’s hopes, Wake takes the length of him easily, right into his throat. Scratch can feel Wake moaning, gripping his hair oh so tightly; he feel Wake’s body shivering and pushed too far, too hard, too fast, and as he cums again he jerks violently, crying out against Scratch’s dick, eyes locked on Scratch, which pushes Scratch over. He cums hard into Wake’s throat, who has to swallow to avoid choking.

Scratch falls back onto the bed, bouncing with the effort, panting. He stares at Wake, who’s staring at him, dazed, breathing heavily, cum and saliva and blood dripping down his mouth and jaw. His lips are puffy and torn, his eyes are ringed with red. He looks like a fucking disaster, and it’s nearly enough to make Scratch want to fuck him again, push him over a third time, hear his body tear. But he has a job to do, and the whispers in the back of his head are louder now, knowing he’s pushing the writer almost too far to recover from. They still need Wake alive, and so Scratch decides against another go, sliding off the bed and into the bathroom to clean himself up.

When he comes out again, he lets the tentacle around Wake’s throat go, and the writer’s head falls forward almost immediately. He coughs up all the cum, drool and blood stuck in his throat, the mess of it splattering against the floor. The tentacles inside Wake’s body slide out slowly, one at a time, making Wake moan with the motion; the tentacles around his dick have disappeared already, dropping his cum on the floor as they go. Scratch knows he needs to let his prey go, but he has a better idea. Not just yet- soon, but not just yet. In a few hours, maybe, once the writer’s limbs have really started to ache. He needs to let Wake really soak up this lesson, understand exactly what’s at stake here. _If I catch you fucking around again…_

Scratch pulls open the curtains, peering into the courtyard. Still night. Still quiet. Somewhere in all that Darkness, there are Taken wandering around, confused on what to do with both Wake and Scratch seemingly missing entirely. Scratch smirks, and turns back to Wake, retrieving his knife from the floor and unceremoniously swiping it against his pant leg before closing it again, sliding it back into his pocket. “Hey, that was fun, huh?” he asks, walking around the whole of the man still hanging up in the air, taking in one last good look. Then, he steps to Wake’s right, “I wanna show you something, just real quick,” and takes Wake’s jaw in his hand again, jerking his head up and over. “Look, look look look. See that? That little crest of the roof right there?” Scratch points with his unoccupied hand, gripping Wake’s jaw tighter, lips against Wake’s sweaty ear, at the window where he’d drawn the curtains back. “Right there? That’s where the light’d pour in once the sun came up, right over the building. And yknow, from this angle, it’d totally bust these shadows. Imagine that! A little sun and you’re free to go.” He pats Wake’s cheek, smiles coldly. “Shame that’s not how the story goes, huh bud?”

Wake yells something after him with a hoarse voice as he throws open the door and strolls out into the clear night air, but Scratch doesn’t bother to actually hear what it is.


End file.
